The Knight Becomes Me
by Soxman
Summary: After the third task, Harry flees Britain. Meanwhile, Voldemort takes over. To win now, Harry will need to become something more than a hero... something more like the Dark Knight. No longer a one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This story was inspired by Baronvonblack's _In Darkest Night_. This is a one-shot… for now. I don't own Harry Potter, or DC Comics.

Prologue: The Night's Darkest

-Continued from the hospital wing after the third task of the Triwizard tournament. Harry is AU-

It was impossible to get any sleep, even after taking a potion to induce it. Of course, I could pretend, but being surrounded by a concerned group, from my Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, to Mrs. Weasley, a mother figure in my life, to my best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermoine Granger, conditioned me to resist its effects. I close my eyes and pretend to drift off to sleep, aware of the several sets of eyes watching my every movement. They were right to be concerned. Because tonight was the culmination of months of ignorance, a refusal to look at the facts in front of me, and perhaps even another round of manipulation from the venerable headmaster. All of this has led to the death of a friend and comrade, Cedric Diggory, the return of the most evil wizard in recent times, Lord Voldemort, and the unmasking of an impostor who moved the pieces to acquiesce to his Lord's wishes, Barty Crouch Jr. To be me, Harry Potter, the famed Boy-Who-Lived, has never been a grimmer proposition than it is right now, even when other highlights in my life include being chased by a basilisk and being surrounded by a hundred dementors.

It is impossible to think of that title I have been saddled with as a blessing, as a mark of recognition. It is a curse. And now that I think of curses inflicted upon me, it is impossible to not think of my greatest fear, the most visible omen of doom's approach. Since Voldemort killed my parents, I have been shadowed. Wherever I go I am followed. They are agents of impending destruction. Black, wings flapping, screeching, always watching; the bats.

I remember when I was seven, my cousin and his friends had jumped me and had beaten me like usual. When I finally awoke, I had no idea where I was. But I knew I was being watched. Suddenly, I remember being swarmed by hundreds of tiny boomerangs with high-pitched voices. It was the bats, coming to mock me, to ridicule me for being so weak, to take pleasure in my pain. Since then, whenever I was punished by being locked in the cupboard, through the small crack that allowed light to pierce my dank existence, on nights where the moon shown white through the hole, there was always a bat there. And since then, whenever the worst was to happen to me, the bats followed me, laughing over the fate in store for me. Tonight was very typical.

I can remember vividly watching Cedric fall to the ground. It was slow motion, like time itself had stopped. I caught a glimpse of his eyes; the life was gone, they were empty and soulless. And around us the bats fluttered and flapped. It was always the bats. And before I could even comprehend, even really register that Cedric was gone; I was slammed against the headstone. One look at it told me all I needed to know: Tom Riddle. The bats laugh manically, confident that this time I will finally die.

They had tried several times before, those bats, to finish me off. At the Dursleys, they were guards, stalking and taunting me with how I couldn't escape my personal hell. They tried to break me. And at Hogwarts, they tried again. They watched with amusement when I went after the Philosopher's Stone, scrambled to the Chamber of Secrets, almost futilely battled the dementors for my godfather, and stumbled throughout each of the three deadly tasks Voldemort and Crouch manipulated me into. And even though I triumphed, and I survived, the bats always won. They always had the Dursleys to try and break me again. It was especially painful when it seemed an escape was finally in reach with Sirius, only to have the bats win the day once again. And now, the bats had gone a step further.

Pettigrew has just stabbed my right arm, just after he added "bone of the father" to his concoction. Soon he adds the blood and his own hand. And the color changes, the steam billows, and the bats swarm around us, resting in trees, angling for a better look. And finally, after futilely hoping something had gone wrong, that Pettigrew had made a mistake with the potion, a snakelike man emerged. Lord Voldemort returned. Looking at his snakelike face, his slit like eyes, it suddenly strikes me as how odd it is that my greatest fear, the most persistent enemy, is the bat rather than the snake. After some testing and flexing of his new body, he is ready to commence his rebirth ceremony. A touch of Pettigrew's dark mark, and the Death Eaters have arrived, masked and dressed in shadow black, standing menacingly in a circle surrounding me and Voldemort. And Voldemort, like any true evil genius, decides to document his struggles and his eventual triumph for all his Death Eater's to hear. All those that were present anyway. And as he talks, the bats swarm and synchronize, cackling madly once again. They seem certain that today will be my end. And they are probably right.

I am no match for Lord Voldemort, even with all the studying I have secretly done. And to prove to me the pointlessness of a further struggle, Voldemort brushes a hand against my face, and it burns. Not for him, no, he's finally defeated the blood protection. It burns for me. To know that my Mother's blood no longer prevents Voldemort from touching me, to know that once again Albus Dumbledore's vaunted plans and protections have failed.

Of course, to prove his superiority over me, he arranged for a fair duel. And then he used the cruciatus curse on me. Pain, like I'd never felt before flooded my body. Not when my relatives beat me. Not when I fought Quirrell. Not even when the basilisk fang stabbed me. I wanted it to end, to stop the bats absolute power over me. And then he laughed, and asked me if I wanted more. I might have wished for the end, but I refused to go out like a sniveling coward. He even used the imperious curse to try and force me to yield. But I was a stubborn git. And then he used that blasted curse on me again. Finally, after it ended, I tried my best to resist. If I was going to die anyway, why should I use my true power, to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was anything but a weak mark? So I cast the weakest thing I could, expelliarmius, the disarming charm. And then there was the amazing echo parade, which saw all of Voldemort's most recent victims heckle him and help me flee. And despite Voldemort's and the bat's best efforts, I survived.

But I still died a little inside. Because my survival as at the cost of Cedric's. We were comrades in arms; brothers. And I as good as killed him. Sirius once told me about how he didn't kill my parents but as good as killed them, and I finally understood that distinction. If I hadn't insisted on him coming with me, or if I had forced him back, he'd still be alive. But I didn't. I failed. The bats triumphed, even if it wasn't my end. But the bats will try again. They always do. They have followed me my entire life, and one day, they will win. Finally, my thoughts racing, I fall into that abyss of sleep, my dreams troubled by those recent tragic events.

* * *

Today was the end of year feast, but I wasn't celebrating. I had since come to terms with Cedric's death, but I then turned my attention to the resurrected Dark Lord and the ministry backlash. That fateful night, Cornelius Fudge, the pompous fool, refused to believe my claims of Voldemort's return. And since then, Dumbledore has apparently been taking measures to try and combat Voldemort when he emerges back into the fold. But for now, he is silent. He is a snake at his core, and that means using the shroud of disbelief and uncertainty about his return to his advantage. Followers, intelligence, money; he has ample time to gather as much as he needs.

Since Cedric's death, I had been practicing like a maniac. In the last four years, I have had to face a form of Voldemort three times. Now that he ahs returned to a corporeal form, it's time to push myself. I realize there is little I can do to close the gap between our abilities when his fifty years of insurmountable intelligence and grisly experience gives him an absolute edge. Still I practice. I am still mastering non-verbal spellcasting. I have been doing so for a year, But Voldemort has already got that one down.

I brush the sweaty hair out of my eyes. I have just finished my final training session of this year in the room of requirements. It is a magnificent room that a managed to stumble on in my third year, to help with my patronus casting. Since then, I have used the room to practice advanced magic, or prepare for the tournament, and now to try and learn as much as I can to defend myself from Voldemort.

It secretly amuses me how everyone has taken to this idea that I'm a naive child; no intelligence and average magical ability. Of course, I have worked extremely hard to convince everyone around me of this. But it amuses me how they all believe that façade, how they don't look beneath the surface. I suppose, all modesty aside, that I have always been extremely intelligent. It took hard work to make myself appear to be a dim-witted child when I grew up at the Dursleys. But, to escape my tormentors, my relatives or Dudley's gang, I would take refuge in the library, a place no bully would dare venture. It was here that I learned; to read, to think, to understand. Books have always been a hideout for me, a place of security. And though I read, and learned, I hid all I knew, so that the Dursley's would never know, would never get suspicious, and would never punish me for knowing more.

When Hagrid came bearing my Hogwarts letter, my shock was genuine. I had no idea magic was what I had been doing all those years. I knew I had some power, I could feel it inside of me, like a vast ocean, limitless and endless. I had even manipulated it a few times, when I needed that power to heal, or hide, or retreat. But the world he described was wonderful. And yet, it was such a disappointment. I quickly realized that that I was once again holding back. Probably because the tests, and essays, and whatever else didn't really matter. There was no reward, no more advanced class, just a smile and a nod.

I moved faster on my own. It took to haunting deserted classrooms in the middle of the night, to practicing and experimenting with magic whenever eyes weren't watching me. It still wasn't enough. And all my triumphs at Hogwarts, my great adventures, I handed off to luck and my "friends". I have no doubt that they're my friends, but that if Dumbledore came around with his wise old man concerned about Harry routine, they'd sing like a canary.

I never understood what instinct held me back from letting loose once I got to Hogwarts, now that I was free of the Dursely's influence. I suppose the hat was right when it said I belonged in Slytherin. Never the less, I did hold back, and I did craft a persona of being Dumbledore's Gryffindor golden boy. It was what everyone expected, after all. But they never knew the thoughts that went on in my head, that my colloquial speech and unintelligent mannerisms were a lie, that I dumbed down my grades and played to a specific constructed image of myself I wanted everyone to see. For what purpose, I never really knew, but my instincts told me to do it, and if I couldn't trust myself, then whom could I trust? Eventually, I figured out why I let myself be perceived that way; Dumbledore.

If ever there was a sheep in wolves clothing it was that man. I could pass off some of his mistakes and blunders as individual chance. Until all the evidence started to pile up. Which led to two conclusions; he was either an insane headmaster with too much power and too little sanity, or he was a scheming old man who'd woven me into his grand plans. The first evidence I had was when I visited his office in the second year. The portraits immediately tipped me off. Why would a man with a nearly limitless supply of portraits that could be stationed in any painting in the castle keep them all in his office when they could all be out patrolling, keeping tabs on the heir and his monster? Unless he already knew what the monster was. In which case, why hadn't he informed anyone of the danger? If he figured it out, as Hermoine eventually did, then why didn't he import roosters, or give every student a mirror. And if he didn't know, did that mean the Headmaster of Hogwarts was not willing to do everything in his power to try and stop this threat against his students? Why was he acting the way he was? Why indeed?

The second piece of information that convinced me of his manipulations was in his office after slaying the basilisk, when he informed me that he once taught Tom Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort. If he taught him, and had been around him so much, and knew he was such a talented student, then why did he think that those pitiful first year protections would be enough to prevent Voldemort from stealing the Sorcerer's stone? If he had once opened the chamber, and had possessed a teacher the year prior, then why did he not examine students for possession? The mounting evidence made me realize he was a scheming old man. He had a plan, which he stuck too, and it didn't involve preparing students for the dangers he had brought to his school. The other thought, that he was a doddering old fool everyone else had propped up onto the perennial throne was too discomforting, even for me.

Eventually I figured out that was the reason I had hidden my intelligence. It was so easy, so simple, to present the front as a heroic Gryffindor. I pretended to be a mediocre student, with average magical power. While I hid my intelligence, I can confess that I've always had trouble working my magic. I don't know why, but spells do take longer for me to learn and master. Consequently, I've had to become a master of the theoretical; proposing what magic is, and how to better wield it. But it was easy to hide my intelligence in the guise of a reckless Gryffindor; a fierce "loyalty" to Dumbledore, rushing headlong into dangerous situations and surviving by "chance", and no common sense or smarts. It was a ruse everyone fell for. Even Dumbledore. His feeble attempts at legilimency provided me an opportunity to feed him false memories, what he wanted to see. I've always been a natural oclumens. Organizing my thoughts and defending them came naturally to me even at the Dursleys. I could remember books in explicit detail; concepts and facts stayed forever. And Dumbledore couldn't look into my head, or see what I was thinking. Neither could Snape, though the bastard, my fear personified, tried. Oh, how he tried… and failed. But now it was all for naught.

It is three hours before the end of the year feast, and I've just finished toweling off from my final training session. I knew enough magic to have passed all my NEWTS if I took them tomorrow, but it wasn't enough. Dodging spells, constructing advanced shields, practicing typical dueling tactics; it all wasn't going to cut it against Death Eaters. Almost every member knew all of these spells and more, and the second I started trying to use them in the midst of battle, the kid gloves would comes off, and I would be broken, permanently. I was backed against a wall.

I needed a plan against Voldemort and his merry band. Training in private wouldn't work because of the fallout from Dumbledore and Fudge. I'd been allowed to sneak off in private for so long because I was in "grief and was brooding". In truth, I'd gotten over Cedric's death fairly quickly; I was sad he died, but I decided to turn my energies towards revenge on his and my parent's behalf. But I imagined Fudge would keep a closer eye on Hogwarts next year, and Dumbledore a closer eye on me. Voldemort had 50-60 years of training and experience on me. True, I was about at the level he was at when he was my age, but he had fifty years to build and expand on it. He also had several handpicked and personally trained Death Eaters capable of slaughtering me in a heartbeat. Running away wasn't an option because either Dumbledore or Voldemort would find me. But as it stood now I needed to even the odds. I needed to level the playing field. I needed a course of action. I needed an ally. One who would advise me, and go against Dumbledore on my behalf. I needed-

-_Sirius_. Yes, why hadn't I thought of him earlier? It would be easy to convince him of the headmaster's manipulative ways. He had years of training as an auror, he could advise me on what to do. But how could I get in touch with him? Wait a second; this is the room of requirements, isn't it? So I concentrated. _I need to get in touch with Sirius. I need to get in touch with Sirius. __**I need to get in touch with Sirius**_. And then the room created a fireplace and provided floo powder for me.

I timidly walk towards the fire, the flames crackling merrily, and grab the floo powder. I toss it in, and yell, "Sirius Black." And when I stick my head through, and whom should I come face to face with but the crafty marauder himself. His grey eyes locked onto my green ones, and he jumped.

"Harry, what are you doing here?" he asked.

I shrugged. "First up, where is here? And second I need to talk to you."

Sirius's expression darkened. "This is the house I grew up in, and now the new headquarters for the Order of the Pheonix; Dumbledore's anti-Voldemort coalition." He took on a look of understanding. "You need to speak with me," he said softly. He probably thinks this is about Cedric and the tournament. And in a way, it is.

I nodded. "Come on through, I have a secure room where no one will find us and we'll be able to talk uninterrupted." He looked doubtful such a place existed and uncomfortable with what I just asked of him. I sent him a pleading look. Two second later, the room morphed so that Sirius and I would have a comfortable room for conversation. He took a seat opposite me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Are you alright Harry?" he asked me softly.

"Well except for a resurrected Dark Lord, a manipulative old headmaster, a power struggler between said headmaster and the ministry, and the death of a friend, I'm fine," I remarked bitterly.

Sirius looked at me quizzically. Oddly enough, he has focused on my second statement, though the other four are far more pressing concerns. "What do you mean 'a manipulative old headmaster'?"

I gave him a look of disbelief. "Don't tell me you haven't figured out he's been manipulating you and me for years?" He gave me a look of doubt. I shook my head in wonder. "Tell me Sirius, you were sent to Azkaban without a trail or even a Verituserum questioning session. Why? Consider that the Longbottoms had just been attacked and driven out of their minds. They believe you're a Death Eater. Why then didn't they question you about other Death Eaters at large, or families at risk? Isn't that a logical step for making sure no one else dies? Dumbledore is the chief of the Wizengamot; isn't it in his interests to make this questioning happen so he knows which order members are compromised, and what order plans and contingencies have fallen into enemy hands? Or at least get close enough to use legilimency on you to obtain that information? Don't even get me started on the injustices of how unfairly you were treated. Then, thirteen years later, when you break out and meet me, he's very quick to believe that you're innocent isn't he. Why couldn't he have convinced Fudge to do a Verituserum questioning session to see exactly what you were planning? He's the most influential wizard in the world, except when his chess pieces need to be in trouble."

Sirius looked at me, at first in disbelief, but after a few moments of silence, that look slowly changed from disbelief into horror. "Why? WHY WOULD HE DO THAT?" he shouted.

"Simple. He wanted me raised in a home with no love and lots of abuse so when I was brought back into the wizarding world I was uneducated and would look up to him as a savior of sorts. Except by the end of the second year I'd seen through his genial old man act. I've told you about my first two years here, right?" he nodded. "Well, tell me, if you're the Headmaster, and a monster of some kind is terrorizing the school, then why didn't you station portraits to try and catch a glimpse of the monster, especially when the last time a similar series of events happened, Lord Voldemort was attending your school? I'm guessing it's because he already knew what the monster was? Why then didn't he distribute mirrors or import more roosters to kill it? Unless he wanted to test his brave 'Gryffindor Golden boy' once again? It's especially obvious in hindsight because Voldemort possessed a teacher the year before. Why wouldn't he find another body to inhabit, and another way to try and kill me? Then, after I nearly die in the chamber he reveals in his office that he taught Tom Riddle before. If you've taught him, and fought against him, then why would you think those flimsy protections on the stone the previous year would stop him? Unless they weren't meant to stop him, but challenge three first years, one of whom he'd wanted to test? So all in all, no I don't trust Dumbledore, his motives, and especially his plan for me. Which is why I need you Sirius." I finished my rant and looked at him expectantly.

We sat in silence for several minutes, Sirius thinking over my worlds, and growing more depressed by the second. "He condemned me to hell." He finally whispered. "Because he needed me out of the way he condemned me to hell." I went over and hugged him. It was hard to see a grown man become completely disillusioned with the world he was in, but it was necessary. Finally he stopped. He looked ready to kill Dumbledore.

"Sirius stop, you can't kill him. Just keep an eye on him, monitor him, and you'll see what I'm saying. But to shatter your views on the headmaster wasn't why I called you here. I need help." Sirius signaled for me to continue. "For years, I've been pretending to be a mediocre student, barely above average, except when circumstances, like the dementor invasion or the Hungarian Horntail, demand I master an advanced piece of magic. That's all a lie. True, I needed help with those spells. But I'm much more gifted with magic, much more intelligent, than I ever let on. But with Voldemort's return, I find myself outclassed by a wizard with fifty plus years of experience on me, and whose minions could take me down easily. So that's why I'm coming to you. I need advice, a plan, anything to grasp at really." I finished with the desperate plea audible in my voice.

"What are you trying to accomplish Harry? Revenge. You can't. It'll taint your soul. Defending your friends. Nothing you do can really defend them. I remember when we fought against him the first time around. We were reduced to ruin. We only pulled off our little pyrrhic victory because of that once in a million fluke you provided. What we really need to do is run," Sirius replied in a voice of forced calm.

"Sirius, the thought did cross my mind. But no matter where I run, they'll find me. And when they do, I'll be killed. Okay, let's start at the beginning. Why is Voldemort after me?"

Sirius contemplated for a moment. "I think it's because of the prophecy."

"Prophecy?"

Sirius stared at me, amazed that I didn't know what he was talking about. Finally he clapped a hand to his head, as he finally understood something. "Yes, Lily and James told me right before they went into hiding. It was the reason they went into hiding. There was a prophecy made that you or the Longbottom child would be the one to defeat Voldemort with some sort of "power he knows not" or something which Dumbledore heard. Lily thought it was bunk, but James thought that whether it was nonsense or not was irrelevant. Voldemort believed it, he apparently learned of it from a spy, and he was hunting both children. That was why he killed your parents and tried to kill you; he believed you were the child of prophecy."

"All of this was over a prophecy?" Harry asked dumbfounded. "Do you have any idea what the prophecy said?"

"No, but the Department of Mysteries has records of prophecies. You can make an appointment and go during the summer." Sirius answered.

"Like Dumbledore would ever let me leave Durzkaban, especially to hear a prophecy he's been keeping from me for years. Okay Sirius, I need a way to escape, to train over the summer. Can you help me?" Harry begged.

Sirius thought it over. "Well… no." He saw Harry's glare. "I mean, there's nothing I personally can do, like harboring you, or setting up magical tutors. However… if you left the country of your own accord, then…"

"Do I have the money to do that?" Harry interrupted.

"I know James gave a lot to the war effort last time, but I think you should have enough. Head by Gringotts and check out your vault," Sirius suggested.

"So let's put that on the list of things I'll do once I'm free of Dumbledore. Do you have any idea of how to fool whatever monitors he has so I can make an escape?" Harry asked.

Sirius frowned as he thought. Finally, after a few minutes, he spoke again. "Well… perhaps- it is rather dark, being blood magic and all, but…" he seemed to hesitate, standing firmly on the wall of decisiveness.

"Sirius!" Harry prodded, annoyed.

"Fine. I think Dumbledore has some kind of blood monitor over your summer jail. So, if you remove, maybe a quart of your blood, and some skin, then perhaps… we can fool the monitors for maybe a week or so, before one of the Order discovers you're gone. That should give you enough time to…"

Harry hugged him. But then he drew back, as if he'd been slapped. "What about you?" he whispered. "What will they do to you?"

"When they find out I've helped you with this?" Harry nodded, scared at what his Godfather might be putting on the line. "At best, being kicked out of the Order and house arrest, and at worst… well, considering what you've told me, I wouldn't put it past him to try and hand me over to Fudge as a peace offering."

Harry hugged his godfather harder, knowing it might be the last time they ever saw each other. And Sirius, almost regretfully, threw powder into the fireplace and stepped through back to Grimmald place. Harry stared at the crackling fire, feeling more determined and resolute than he could ever remember.

* * *

It had gone off without a hitch. Sirius was right; the blood magic had fooled the "powerful protective wards" that had annually sentenced him to the prison that was Privet Drive. Once free of his "jailers", otherwise known as one filthy man passed out in a haze of alcohol, he had hopped on the Knight Bus and headed for London. He was thankful he'd worn a hat, as Fudge had wasted no time in organizing a slander campaign against him and Dumbledore courtesy of the Daily Prophet, and what he needed to do today had to be done without anyone's eye on him, be it Fudge's, Dumbledore's, or Voldemort's.

Gringott's goblins were extremely amenable to helping him. Harry had no way to know that all the help they gave him that day was due to the breakdown in negotiations with Lord Voldemort's forces hours prior. Nevertheless, they informed him of his financial situation, the two pieces of property he owned- both of which needed to be rebuilt, and arranged a way for Harry to withdraw galleons overseas without being traced.

That done, Harry headed over to the Ministry of Magic building. Sirius had shown Harry that if a person knew there was a prophecy about them stored in the Ministry archives, they could request a private viewing. Harry had owled the Department of Mysteries, and explained that he needed to see the prophecy in question without anyone being the wiser, or even knowing he was at the Ministry. As Harry stepped into the security line, a black robed figure came over and interrupted the security guard about to question him, claiming to the guard on duty that he needed to question Harry on the Department's behalf. It was a common enough occurrence that the guard just shrugged and moved onto the next person while the Unspeakable led Harry away. A lift ride, several sets of long, windy corridors, and Harry was being led down a row filled with smoky glass orbs littering both sides of the aisle.

An hour later, he was being escorted out of the Ministry with his head abuzz. His disbelief was split into two different, but equal, camps, the first camp not believing he was supposed to be the one to defeat Voldemort, and the second full of righteous indignation over Dumbledore's keeping it from him. Now that he had definitive evidence that he couldn't trust the aged Headmaster, or his motivations, there was only one thing for it.

After he left Diagon Alley, he returned home via the Knight Bus. He stole some of his Uncles's old suitcases, and put all the items that could pass for normal in them. Then, he placed all of the things that would give him away into another suitcase, and added a timed portkey he purchased from the goblins. Once he found somewhere else to live, he could take his stuff with him. That done, he took the ordinary suitcase with him and, via the Knight bus, returned to the front of the Leaky Cauldron. However, rather than reenter the Alley, he walked across the street, and hailed a cab after ten minutes of signaling and waving like a madman.

It was an hour's drive to Heathrow through London traffic, all of which harry used to marvel at the traffic jam the likes he'd never seen before. Soon, he was in front of the flight board in Heathrow, wondering where he wanted to go. Closing his eyes, he randomly pointed in a direction, and opening his eyes, saw he picked Hong Kong. He booked his flight, checked in, and within a few hours, was on a plane leaving Britain. All without the Order ever realizing what he'd done.

* * *

_Three Years Later_

A figure dressed all in black appeared with a loud crack in a deserted field just south of Cornwall. It was the first time in three years he'd set foot on the British shores. He brushed the shaggy, black hair out of his eyes as he adjusted his cloak and began scanning the surrounding area, searching for signs of life, making sure he was alone. The last three years had taught him there were the paranoid few, like Alastor Moody, and the many dead. After he finished casting every detection charm he knew, he sheathed his wand, and turned to sit on a nearby rock.

He sighed at how empty and alone he felt. The cold autumn night was not helping his depressed mood. His right arm began to ache, as it normally did when the weather turned cold. Despite his best efforts, the arm's nerves had never properly recovered from the cursed blade it had been stabbed by. _Ducard_.

Harry sighed, pushing away memories of a time and place he wished he could forget. Now of all times, he needed to focus. If he lost his head at this juncture, then he would never manage to overthrow Voldemort's puppet government or the Dark Lord himself.

No matter how he thought about it, the situation was grim, very grim. Those he could call friends, or at the very least, allies, a few years ago were unreachable at this point, either turning traitor, being incapacitated, or believing him to be a traitor. _It's only fair, Harry… you did betray them first_.

He could never have imagined the consequences his absence would have on Great Britain. After a few years of maneuvering, content for the time being to play Fudge against Dumbledore, Voldemort had struck. With one massive assault just a few months ago, he'd overthrown the Ministry of Magic. The changes in public policy were accredited to Fudge's successor, Pius Thicknesse, Voldemort's appointee for Minister. Of course, the new public policy was to treat muggleborns and magical creatures like Jews and Gypsies had been treated under Hitler and Grindlewald.

Harry had spent many sleepless nights in the past months imagining the Weasleys, Hermoine, Dumbledore, Sirius, and Remus blaming him for abandoning them. He knew they were right. The Weasleys were all imprisoned in Azkaban, as were Sirius and Remus. The animagus wards prevented Sirius breaking out a second time. Many of his former classmates, those who'd known him, and tried to form a resistance in his name, like Neville Longbottom, shared cells bordering theirs. Most muggleborns, rather than being killed outright, were sentenced to work camps for their crime of having "stolen" magic from Wizardborns. And Dumbledore was supposed to be lying low, though many of his order members had been shown cells in Azkaban as well. He and Moody were the only known resistors, besides him, to be on the loose. Even Harry's grisly imagination couldn't have conjured up a darker scenario with any grimmer odds against him.

_Now's your chance to atone; for leaving… for Ducard_. Almost involuntarily, his thoughts returned to his old mentor. Henri Ducard. He'd met the man in Myanmar, after having been jailed for crossing the border illegally. Henri had introduced him to a new life. _The League_. Henri had taught him so much, everything Harry knew. But still, his admiration of his mentor had pulled the wool over his eyes in regards to the League's leader plans, orchestrated by their leader, Ra's al Ghul. The league was a bloodthirsty and ambitious as Voldemort, but had the exact opposite in beliefs. Rather, they directed their energy at purebloods. Harry finally woke up, and realized that he was serving a poor copy of the Death Eaters, only killing purebloods in their name rather than muggleborns. Perhaps that was why he'd burned down the League's headquarters and killed Ghul. Perhaps that was why he'd rescued Herni, perhaps it was a start on the path to redemption.

Harry sighed, and forcefully pulled himself out of his memories. At this moment, Britain was almost literally burning. And now, he had to find a way to clean up the mess he'd made. The only possible solution within his grasp was to become an embodiment of the Dark Knight.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: And. Here. We. GO! Welcome to another expanded one-shot. I hope you all enjoy. Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter… or Batman. I wish I did, though.

Chapter One: Before The Dawn

_Smoke wafts into my nostrils as the flames consume the dojo I'd once considered home. Gravity does its work as the ceiling supports crash into the floor, ending the lives of many of my unconscious former colleagues. I look at the spread of bodies before me, and spying my former mentor, my one time savior, I leap towards him before the flames engulf him. _

_I sling his body over my shoulder, and barrel towards the door, feeling the temperature increase exponentially with every awkward move I make. I see one of the support beams on fire, the one that hangs main entrance. One second is spent glancing at Henri's unconscious form, before I redouble my efforts and charge again, not even considering the unthinkable choice of leaving him behind._

_One more charge, and I am through the door, just as the ceiling support finally crashes to the floor and blocks the way to and fro. Knowing that I've escaped immediate danger doesn't stop me, however. I continue running for another few minutes, before finally collapsing to the ground. Ducard falls beside me… and just lays there._

_After a few minutes of breathing heavily, I stagger to my feet. I look mournfully down at Henri's unconscious form. I briefly consider waking him, but I decide against it. He wouldn't understand. Besides he saved my life, so I've repaid the favor. Sighing once more, I turn and walk away…_

So here I am, back in a land I once called home, and I am still plagued by memories. Not nightmares, memories- though at this point, I think I'd prefer the nightmares; possibly because my other choices are memories of the League, or visions from Voldemort.

At least this hotel room in Cornwall was quiet and comfortable. The Premier Inn I had bunked at for the night was not filthy, disgusting, noisy, particularly busy, or plagued by loud children. It was good for a desperate one night stay, and that was about it. Now that I had my good night sleep, it was time to get underway.

A wave of my wand, and the dirty clothes and toiletries repacked themselves into the non-distinct duffel bag I traveled with. Another wave, and the duffel bag shut closed.

I stepped in front of the mirror, admiring the suit I wore. In some ways, the three years in exile had actually been kind to me. One of those ways stared back at me in the mirror. My well known green eyes had been changed to dark brown with the aid of colored contacts- thankfully undetectable by magic. The filthy mat of hair that had plagued me most of his life had finally been trimmed back to a short, neat cut with a part down the middle. My nose was crooked from being broken twice, which also served to further shield me from recognition. The old, tattered set of glasses I'd once used had been replaced by browline glasses, a throwback to the 50's. Any final traces of Harry Potter were hidden behind diagonal scars on both of my cheeks. The original scar I had was hidden by cream I had placed over it. And, to top it all off, the ragged and worn clothes of another lifetime had been replaced by a crisp, black suit.

My appearance was very carefully geared to supporting the persona I had to maintain. When I left Britain, I had been teetering close to financial ruin. I barely had enough money left in my vault to pay my way through Hogwarts. Now, through a little international bounty hunting, the recovery of some treasure in Southern Africa and the Far East, and some wise investments, I was quite well off. Which was excellent considering my cover in Britain was going to be that of an American Businessman.

Back in America, I had founded a company called Wayne Enterprises. It was a business focusing on the development of new, experimental technology. So far, business had been steady, but uninspiring. My company had been quoted on the S&P, but not at a price that would attract a lot of attention or scrutiny. Meanwhile, the magical division of the company was hemorrhaging money, because they kept creating magical innovations, like a walkman that ran on magic, that the magical public was just not interested in procuring. Still even with the uninspiring success, and the money hole my Magical Division created, I had broken about even in terms of money I'd put in, and money I'd gotten back.

My financial situation made his cover as a businessman negotiating an expansion of his operations into Britain all the more plausible. I was making a slight profit, and expressing a desire to expand into magical Britain as a source of cheaper labor, might, might, just be enough to get my foot in the door. Maybe. I hoped.

I ruffled my suit once more, and then slung his duffel bag over my shoulder. A short elevator ride down, and I was standing in front of the reception desk.

"I'm checking out," he said to the receptionist on duty. "Wayne, room 364."

The receptionist began shuffling papers and files, and finally presented me with a bill. I glanced at the bill, before I pulled out my company charge card and swiped it through. A minute later, I had paid, and exited the hotel, and I headed off for a secluded spot from which I could dissaparate. With a crack, I disappeared and apparated into the entranceway of the Leaky Cauldron.

I barely noticed the attention my arrival drew. After all, it isn't everyday that a man dressed in a crisp muggle suit wanders into Death Eater territory. I attempt to ignore the attention I am receiving as I make my way to the Alley. Sadly, I fail.

"Who let you in?" snarls the barman- I think his name is Yaxley.

"Begging pardon, sir?" I ask in my best American accent. If my reports were right, he is a Death Eater stationed here to monitor traffic into and out of the commercial heartland of magical Britain. No need to anger anyone so soon in the game, especially people I will soon be publicly working with, and pretending to like.

"Who let you in?" he snarls once again. It seems like he is trying to intimidate me.

I shrug, and try to act casual. "Minister Thicknesse. I am here for business negotiations."

Yaxley's eyes widen. Anyone else wouldn't care one way or the other about that tidbit of information, but he immediately backs down. My admission tells him that I know who his master is. It also tells me I am expected, which both worries and reassures me.

I manage to pass through the bar without encountering any other difficulties. A tap of my wand, and for the first time in three years, the entrance to Diagon Alley reveals itself to me.

The Alley has changed a great deal in my absence; that was to be expected. Still nothing could have prepared me for feeling of hopelessness and defeat now firmly a part of the Lane. I watch as Wizards and Witches go about their business, while nervously glancing over their shoulders at the Death Eater guards stationed in the alley. Many of the shops I have come to know and love, such as Ollivanders and Fortescues, are now out of business; the boards across the entranceways seem like a metaphor for the state of magical Britain.

Shrugging, I walk on, attempting to ignore the bustling crowd around me. The guards in the alley leer at me, or rather, my suit, but don't hassle me at the very least. Has Voldemort spread the word through the ranks about my being here? A thought turns my blood to ice. What if… what if Voldemort knows who I really am? Could this all be a ploy to capture me? Have I wandered into a trap?

I climb the marble steps to Gringotts while gripping my wand underneath m jacket. Gone are the goblin sentries, now replaced by Death Eater minions. Surly bastards who hated people replaced by surly bastards who hate people; how lovely.

I enter the bank and walk up to the nearest open register. Hmmm, the bank isn't as busy as I remember it to be. I wonder what the Dark Lord and his minions have done that has resulted in such a downturn in business for them. Hell, I wonder what kind of leverage they're using to keep goblins in line.

"I am here on behalf of Wayne Enterprises for a meeting with Minister Thicknesse," I tell the goblin on duty. The snarl that flickers across his face at the mention of the Minister tells me all I need to know about wizard-goblin relations under Voldemort. It seems even Fudge was more popular with the goblins.

"The honored Minister is awaiting you in conference room 11. I shall have someone take you there." He presses a button, and another goblin bustles over. "Augeblade, take Mr. Wayne to conference room eleven." Another flicker of disgust, and suddenly I am as unpopular with the goblins as the Minister and his boss.

I am led in silence through the winding halls of Gringotts offices. And here I thought that behind the bank was just the system of tunnels leading to vaults. I was wrong.

Finally we arrive at conference room eleven. The goblin pushes the door open, beckons me inside, and then leaves, like we all smell of sulfur. Considering who I'm dealing with, perhaps the smell of sulfur is in the air.

"Mr. Wayne! It is a pleasure to meet you!" Thicknesse declares as he moves to shake my hand.

I hold out my hand, and give his a firm shake. Great, now I need a shower to get the slime off my hand. "The pleasure is mine, Minister," I reply softly. "Shall we get down to brass tacks?"

Being the only two people in this room, we sit opposite each other. I suddenly notice his long hair, his polished robe, and his weathered face. Inwardly I gulp; this is going to be one of the toughest things I have ever done. Still, I know the necessity of doing it, so I get the ball rolling.

"Good afternoon, Minister. On behalf of Wayne Enterprise, I welcome you, and hope for a profitable discussion." I open my duffel bag, and withdraw a business portfolio for the Minister to see, and a small metal projector that has been rigged to work around magic. "I am certain you have already reviewed our business dealings and portfolio, but on the off-chance you have not, or do not have a copy ready for view, I present you with this." I get up and place the folder next to the Minister, while bowing.

I walk back to my seat, but rather than returning to it, I continue to stand. "Although Wayne Enterprise is a newcomer to the business world, and in particular to the world of technology development, as you can see, by corporate profit and share price, our company is achieving an outstanding level of growth."

I snap my fingers, and the projector comes to life- a degree of showmanship that I hope impresses our dear Minister. "As you can see by the chart," The projector shows my company's stock price graph, "Investor confidence and market interest in the shares of stock available for public purchase has steadily risen, as the rising price indicates." Another snap of my fingers, and we move on to a graph of corporate profits. "Profits have also risen, and, as you can see by the blue line, steadily outperformed public expectations." A final snap of my fingers and the projector stops whirring and falls silent.

"So as you can see, even by the most conservative economist's standards, we are, at very least, a moderate success, but a success non-the-less. That is where you and your Ministry come in." I take a breath. "We at Wayne Enterprise are interested in expanding our operations to Great Britain. Already, we have concluded negotiations with, and come to an agreement with, the British government. However, because we are both a magical and muggle company, as stated by International Law, specifically the Magical-Muggle compact of 1884, we require both governments approval to affect an expansion of our operations. That is why I am here today."

Another breath taken, and I'm ready to continue. "We specialize in technology, specifically electronics and pharmaceuticals. As you can see from our portfolio, we recently won a contract to provide the British government with on-board aircraft navigation sets for their military. In terms of the magical market, profits have not yet materialized, but there is optimism that they will be short in coming. In summation, business is booming, and we wish to expand operations into Great Britain."

As I finish, I hear clapping coming from the doorway, the one I thought the goblin closed. Standing there, adorned in midnight black robes, and with something resembling a smirk on his face, is Lord Voldemort. Every second of Occlumency training I ever did is being used at that moment to hide my shock, disgust, and fear at being so close to the… "man". I am also praying for my life that ritual I underwent, the one to dampen the mental connection between us, is working. Because if he is feeling shooting pain in his head at being in close contact to me, then I probably won't be walking out of this room alive.

"Very impressive, Mr. Wayne," the snake chortles softly.

"Thank you, Mr…?" I feign confusion, hoping that he really buys my alter ego.

"You can call me Lord Voldemort," he replies airily. And there is the legilimency probe. I almost panic, as I feel him invade my mind, but, as I was taught to do, I hide my Occlumency defenses, and begin creating and feeding him false memories. After a few minutes, he retreats from my mind, apparently satisfied. Oh, and now I have a raging migraine from allowing the bastard partial access to my mind.

"A pleasure, my Lord," I eventually reply, holding out my hand to be shaken. To my surprise, he firmly it with his cold, clammy hand; I guess he really wants this contract.

"Are there any questions?" I ask as I retake my seat. To my horror, Lord Voldemort closes the door, and takes a seat right next to the Minister. At least I feel a degree in satisfaction in knowing I'm not the only one who's horrified.

"Yes: what kinds of technology does your company develop?" Lord Voldemort asks.

"As I said: electronics, pharmaceuticals, magical developments, military equipment, aeronautics equipment, radar development, and biochemical development," I shoot off in order. If I didn't know better, I'd say Thicknesse and Voldemort are rather impressed; that worries me.

"What types of expansion operations would your company undertake?" Thicknesse asks.

"Well, first and foremost, if an agreement was reached, I would be sent here to coordinate the expansion. That said, we are prepared to open up factories in London, Liverpool, Edinburg, Bath, Cambridge, Cornwall, and Glasgow- as well as commercial branches in those cities and more. With your approval, we would employ the undesirable segments amongst your population in the development and testing projects we undertake." Gee, I hope that sounds like I'd conduct live test, and, by extension, that I hate these groups as well. In reality, any and all experimentation would involve better ways to heal people; it's the least I can do after I left Britain in this mess. "All told, within a year, we expect to employ a quarter of a million people at our firm, and a tenth of that will be employed by our magical division." Yes, I have just offered twenty-five thousand jobs to a population plagued by high unemployment. Call it the "cherry on top."

"Do you have any problems with our… ideological positions?" Thicknesse asks gently.

_HELL YES_ a voice screams in my mind. Out of my mouth emerges my best diplomatic response. "As long as it does not interfere with our business, you can wage World War and our company will not act," I reply neutrally. Hah, "As long as it does not interfere with our business"- there, I'll leave them to figure it out.

Both Thicknesse and Voldemort glance at each other. Thickness nods slightly, and Voldemort mimics the gesture. He stands and walks over to me. "We appreciate your presentation, Mr. Wayne, and we shall let you know of our decision in the coming days."

I stand and shake his hand once more, and then turn and stiffly bow to Lord Voldemort. "I appreciate this, gentlemen. If it is of no inconvenience, I shall stay in Britain while my company awaits your decision." No objections thus far. "I would also like to take a tour of your premier magical school Hog… Hog-wings? Whatever its name is, our firm wishes to see the types of schooling and educational opportunities offered to the youngest wizards and witches of magical Britain." In case you couldn't tell, the confusion over the name is deliberate. I'm supposed to be the American businessman unaware of British affairs, not a former Hogwarts student.

Lord Voldemort's face betrays nothing. "That is of no trouble for us, Mr. Wayne. A tour shall be provided for you. A guide shall meet you at eleven in the Leaky Cauldron. If that is all…"

"It is sir." I sling the duffel bag back over my shoulder. "I thank you for your time and your hospitality, Minister, and I hope that we can reach a deal in the near future." I turn to Voldemort. "I thank you for your input and participation in this momentous business deal, and best wishes for the both of you." With that, I turn and leave the room, feeling like I need to bathe in holy water for the next day or so. I really hope the stink of sulfur from dealing with the devil doesn't stay with my favorite suit.

I walk back through the alley, not noticing the hustle and bustle, my mind still fixed on the meeting. Something, some kind of understanding, passed between Thicknesse and Voldemort before the decided to delay approval. What made them hesitate? Yet, Voldemort seemed to try and accommodate my requests. Is it just hard line negotiations, or is it something else?

Here I am, once again, in the Leaky Cauldron, and the bartender is in front of me, a glare fixed on his face. Well, at least there is one constant in my life. "Could I get a butterbeer, sir? Oh, and do you have a room free for the night?"

The bartender growls as he slams my bottle of butterbeer and my room key on the counter. "Twenty galleons," he snarls.

Maybe he thought the high price would make me take my business elsewhere. Sadly, for him, he is mistaken. I pass over the twenty galleons and take hold of my bottle and my key.

I drink deeply as I begin to prepare myself for tomorrow's meeting with an old enemy, and my riskiest gambit to date. After all, Dumbledore firmly believed Snape was on his side. And they're both still alive. So if I want to contact my old Headmaster, then…

Well, enough of that. Pocketing my key, and slamming the empty bottle back on the counter, I make my way out of the Cauldron, and exit back onto the muggle side-street. I have one more meeting today before I can turn in.

It is a twenty minute walk to the restaurant where I have my final meeting of the day. At least the place isn't that crowded, possibly because we are dining so early. Telling the receptionist of my reservation, I am led to a table in the back of the restaurant. I place my menu aside as I wait for my guest to arrive. Within five minutes he is here.

Alfred Pennyworth, the man I have invited here, is a former British Intelligence officer who I crossed paths with in Burma. I remember that he was a knowledgeable, courageous, and intelligent officer who was gifted with the ability to manage, what would otherwise be, a dead-end operation. His worn grey hair, tattered coat, and slight limp indicate life hasn't exactly been kind to him since we parted company two years ago.

"Hello Alfred," I declare as I stand and shake his hand. When I heard he was in town, and currently uninvolved with anything, I decided to put out some feelers. He seems perfect for what I have in mind.

"Good evening, Mister Wayne," he replies politely as he takes his seat. We both pick up our menus and order. After the waitress departs, I wave my wand underneath the table to place a silencing bubble around us.

"So Alfred, I'm… curious. Did you ever figure out that I am-"

"-A hero who went missing from England three years ago? In an excessive amount of danger considering your locale? Surrounded by enemies on all sides?" He pausesm, and stares at me stoically. "Not at all, sir."

I smile guiltily. "I hope you can understand why I kept the truth under wraps," I mumble.

He shrugs neutrally. "I know why you left- you didn't think you had a snowball's chance of winning at the time. On the other hand, I have absolutely no clue why you're here now. If I remember correctly, the last time we fought by side, you ended up in a hospital bed for two weeks."

"What can I say?" I ask rhetorically. "I think I'm ready, for what I have in mind. Of course, what you have in mind is probably something from the mold of Lenin returning to Russia. What I have in mind is more-" I break off my sentence and pause. Hmm, I can't think of a comparison that would work. I would so love to use a movie comparison, but there aren't any out like that, especially none where a band of badass rebels is dropped into enemy territory and causes mass destruction and chaos behind enemy lines; maybe a 2009 candidate for best picture, if I live that long. Oh well.

"More like destroying the regime from the inside out," I finish finally. The only indication that he is giving me his full attention is that his eyebrows, if possible, have risen even further. "The premise I am here on is an expansion of corporate operations. We both know the real reason why I'm here. I need a secretary, a trusted assistant, a confidant. I need you." I finish.

Alfred's response is interrupted by the waiter bringing our meals. We eat in silence. It is a tense silence where I hope, I pray, that Alfred comes around to my way of thinking. Finally, his dish finished, he puts down his fork and wipes his mouth. It looks like he's chewed over my words long enough.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks. "That I think this whole thing is bloody stupid?" I take a sip of water to avoid having to reply. "Well it is!" His voice rises accordingly. "You've been away for three years, trying to prepare, and the best plan you have is coming back to Britain under a false cover and making things up as you go along!" He sighs and takes a sip of water, and when he begins speaking his voice is much lower and more relaxed.

"This is still a bloody stupid idea!" he mutters. "I can see why you need my help." He says nothing more as the waiter comes over and clears away our meal. Another round of menus, the ordering of dessert, and the eating of that dessert, and he still has not said anything. Finally, as the waiter walks away after bringing over the check, Alfred speaks once more.

"For the record, this is a bloody stupid idea!" He declares.

"Who's more foolish: the fool or the fool that follows him?" I counter.

At least he's chuckling; good sign. "Yeah, I'll do it," he replies. "It's the least I can do for you after you saved my life. Still…" He delays finishing his thought until we are both leaving the restaurant and I am walking away from him. "I hope you know what you're getting in to," he whispers as he walks away. Funny enough, the one thought running through my head as he walks away is: _so do I_.

* * *

"So what is the school's ranking in terms of Arithmancy and Runes?" I asked my tour guide. When I met this "guide" this morning, and saw that it was a Death Eater I'd once crossed wands with, Antonin Dolohov, I nearly blew cover right there and killed the man. How I had managed to keep my cool throughout this tour of Hogwarts was a miracle of the highest degree, and something I would never figure out.

"Hogwarts has one of the most advanced Arithmancy programs in Europe. Students are first educated in the magical properties of numbers, and then the relation of those magical properties to spell work and magical power. As for runes, they are incorporated in our advanced warding program available to fourth years and higher," Dolohov explained as he led me around Hogwarts.

"What are the core subjects of the Hogwarts curriculum?" I asked, feeling a grisly curiosity about learning what my old school had been reduced to.

"Transfiguration, Charms, Dark Arts, Potions, Muggle Studies, History of Magic, and Herbology," Dolohov answered swiftly. I found it curious that Astronomy had been dropped; for what reason did Voldemort not want anyone learning how to properly label the night sky.

After a look through the potions classroom, now being taught by a Death Eater puppet called Chatham, we were standing outside the Headmaster's office; Headmaster Severus Snape's office. Dolohov knocked, and we both entered into a room I'd grown so accustomed to seeing decorated in befuddling trinkets, an expansive library, and Fawkes's perch. Now, it's library held tomes of darkest magic, wall coverings of black which served to drown out the portraits, and barely any lighting; a bat's paradise.

"Headmaster," Dolohov bowed to Snape. "I am giving Mr. Wayne a tour of your school. He is an American businessman who is here by your Lord's command."

"It is a very well run school, Headmaster Snape," I compliment.

Snape merely sneers at both of us. Wow, it's like I never left. "I am so pleased to have entertained you both," he snarls. "Now, get out!"

A long time ago, that would have been enough to set me running for the door. Now, after so much time and distance, Snape's anger is not going to keep me up at night. I act like I am oblivious to his rudeness. "If I may, Mr. Dolohov, I would like to ask Headmaster Snape a few questions about the running of his school. I need to ensure that the workers I hire from here are suited for what I had in minutes will be enough."

With a bow, Dolohov leaves me and Snape alone. A long time ago, I swore that if I ever had the means and the opportunity, like I do now, that I'd disconnect the greasy one's head from his body and mount it on my wall. Not today though. And now, for my riskiest move yet.

"Hello professor," I say, waving my wand and parting the cream keeping my scar hidden.

Snape stares in shock, a good expression for him. "Potter!" he whispers breathlessly.

"I have returned!" I declare dramatically in my best impression of MacAurthur.

Snape moves his mouth, but he seems incapable of speech, which is okay, because whatever he'd say would probably darken my mood and make me draw my wand. I tense as he reaches underneath his desk, only to relax once I see that he's pulled out a bottle of firewhisky.

"Thank you professor, but I-"

My polite refusal is cut off by Snape opening the bottle and taking a huge gulp from it, before slamming it back down on the desk. Hmm, seems like someone has developed a drinking problem in my absence. Okay, better move this along before Dolohov returns.

"Yes, I'm back," I say. Wow, just like old times, I feel like I'm talking to a wall. "I'm here as Mr. Wayne, an American businessman prepared to ally myself with the Dark Lord and the British government. If anyone asks, I liked Hogwarts, and I love what you've done with the place." The last bit has such a sarcastic edge to it that Snape actually laughs. Okay, I'm not going to lie; his laugh could make little children cry.

I lean across the desk, towards him. "I need to get in touch with Dumbledore," I whisper.

Instantly he is fully alert and aware of everything going on around him. "Not going to happen!" he snarls back, in a return to his old self.

I stare at him. "He always trusted you, and I know you have a way to contact him. Just set-up a portkey and I'll take it wherever it goes." Damn, my five minutes are nearly up, as the monitoring ward I placed outside the door tells me.

My glance at the door tells him all he needs to know. "Eight tonight at the Leaky Cauldron, there will be a hat left under the third table in the back," he whispers shapely. "At 8:01, it will leave," he warns me. With that, I pull back, and seat myself across from the Headmaster, just as Dolohov walks back in.

"I am pleased by the quality of this institution, and I hope that we are afforded the chance to do business together, Headmaster Snape." Snape's ashen face and the sound of a thousand chimps screaming resonate throughout my mind, as Dolohov walks towards me. I forgot to reapply the cream. I finger my wand, and give it a slash, just as my "guide" reaches my side. He looks at my face, and the same tired boredom there was throughout his tour is still there, indicating that I haven't blown my cover yet. I glance at Snape to see that he is visibly sighing in relief. Seeing Dolohov waiting impatiently, but still blissfully unaware of what has just happening, I stand and follow him for the conclusion of my tour.

* * *

I finish my bottle of butterbeer and place it back onto the counter. I check my watch- 7:58. I calmly head to the back of the Cauldron. Three tables down, I bend and pick-up the hat Snape told me about. I place it under my arm, and hastily walk back to the muggle exit. Once outside, I sprint to the deserted alley on the other side of the street, nearly being run over by the cars going by. I knell behind the trash can, gripping the hat/portkey like a lifeline; in a way, it is just that. And then it is 8:01.

I am bombarded by the familiar dizzying feel of portkey travel, the well-known hook behind the navel sensation, and instinctively, I close my eyes. Finally, I slam into the ground.

Immediately, a black hood covers my face, and my wand is roughly taken from me. Strong, weathered hands drag me along, while the unmistakable tip of a wand is pressed against my throat.

After being dragged along for what feels like ages, but is probably about five minutes, I am slammed into a chair, and my hands roughly bound behind my back. The hood is finally pulled off my face, as the cold, blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore stare into mine. There is the touch of legilimency, and unlike Voldemort, I choose not to keep him out. Finding the memories he is looking for, Dumbledore draws back and removes the tip of his wand from my throat. He seats himself opposite me, with Moody standing to his side, wand pointed at me, and my own wand placed on what would pass for the kitchen table of this filthy, disgusting, kitchen.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore declares airily. As he stares into my eyes once more, I realize that three years ago, when he subdued Crouch Jr., I hoped I would never have to witness his fury directed solely at me. As the angry blue eyes prove, my hopes have come to naught. Suddenly this meeting doesn't seem like such a bright idea.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I apologize for the delay in publishing this chapter. I also apologize for its length, but I just did not want to show too much of my hand all at once. I think, despite its small stature, there is a lot of critical material here. Anyway, I do not own Harry Potter or Batman, and I hope you all enjoy this latest installment.

Chapter Two: But the Dawn Is Coming

"It has been a long time," I remark. "How have you been, Headmaster?"

"Oh, you know," He replies calmly, though his eyes are still blazing. "I've been run out of my school, watched my friends and allies killed and locked away, and been relegated to this rundown hovel. But other than that, I'm fine."

"Glad to hear it," I reply nervously. This. Is. Not. Good. "For what it's worth, I'm happy to see you again," I offer meekly.

Dumbledore's expression softens slightly. Ever so slightly. Okay, maybe that's my optimism talking. "So, seeing as you clearly weren't attending to your obligations, where were you?"

"Now wait just a damn minute," I snarl indignantly. "The whole reason I left was to make sure I could beat that bastard. Before I left, I heard the prophecy," Dumbledore's eyes flicker for a second. "After hearing that, I knew I wasn't ready, no way, no how, to go up against him. Not then. That's what this whole thing was- training, so I can take him on." Maybe Moody will see what I'm talking about. Hopefully,

"And can you take him on now, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asks coldly.

"Not the way you're think, sir. The Dark Lord is not someone who anyone can really go head to head with and expect to win against at this point. But I think that if we work together, we can take him down," I declare confidently.

"Really, Potter? Really? If we work together we can take him down!" Moody mocks coldly. Okay, I was definitely doing better before he opened his mouth.

"Yes, okay, we can! The thing about Riddle is that he hasn't won anyone's support. All he has keeping him in power are his magical ability and his army of followers. Followers can be beaten. Followers can be kicked around, poisoned, knocked off buildings, and disposed of in many varying ways. But then, of course, he'll just find new followers. They have to be beaten in such a way that people know that there is someone out there, someone willing, someone committed, to fighting to the end against him. And that someone, after taking out enough followers, can win all those hearts and minds that he never could; can inspire people to look to a better tomorrow," Harry finished vehemently.

"You're talking out of you arse, Potter," Moody snarls. Time has unfortunately not been kind to him. The number of scars on his face and hands seemed to have tripled, and there is something new, a fragility of sorts, that he carries with him. Dumbledore just looks older and wearier, but Moody looks almost downright defeated. It really is quite sad.

"Yeah, and you surely know exactly what you're talking about. Moody, the Order is almost completely gone. You, the former Headmaster, and Snape are all the remnants that still walk free at this point. If I heard correctly, the second I left, your group and the Ministry turned on each other, and all the Dark Lord had to do was let you fight it out and then pick off the remnants." I see the look on both their faces; murderous. Perhaps I could have made my point in a gentler way? "I'm not saying that to try and hurt you, but sadly, it happened. It is a fact. All I'm suggesting is that we try a new way."

"Yeah, like you won't skip town on us once the going gets tough, Potter," Moody snorts.

"I won't." Looks of doubt appear on both their faces. "I will not! Look, what do you want; an Unbreakable vow? Because I will give you that."

"Alastor, calm please. Harry, that will not be necessary. These past years have been very difficult, but you are right- there is little point in dwelling. We must look to the future. From the way you were talking, it sounds like you have a plan," Dumbledore asks. I am definitely picking up a hint of urgency in his tone. I have to imagine that he must have been at his wits end by this point, because nothing he has done seems to work against the threat of Voldemort.

"All right. Here's my plan. As Snape must have told you, I'm here in disguise as an American Businessman. The way Voldemort is set up, I would generally suggest focusing on him, and letting everything collapse once he's gone. But I just can not pin-point the method he's used to stay alive, so that plan doesn't work. So here's what I was thinking:"

"I mentioned that a rallying figure; a symbol was needed. Voldemort only does the damage he does with a full staff of underlings beneath him. Take them away, and he's just a frustrated Dark Lord causing havoc, not an authoritarian ruler driving a country into the ground. I can become that symbol. That force of opposition. But not as me."

"An associate of mine is busy getting things together, but I will become a symbol that will strike fear into the heart of every Death Eater, that will clean up this country, that will overthrow this regime. Please, trust me- it can be done," I finish.

"That plan sounds very wooly, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore comments sadly.

"I know it does, because I can't give you the specifics here. But, in a month, there will be a portkey in the Leaky Cauldron, the same type as the one used tonight. Go there, and take it; it will leave at the same time as mine did. Once you take it, I can provide you with food, shelter, and security. If you want my vow, you have it," I state urgently, with a hint of desperation in my tone. And then I feel a jerk around my navel, and my retrieval portkey activates.

* * *

_Six Months Later_

Death Eater count: one, two, three, four, five, six. Six. Oh, wait, almost missed that one in the corner. Seven. None of them high ranking. Well, why would there be any high ranking Death Eaters here? This is supposed to be a standard shipment. There hasn't been any disruption to this point. How do I know this? The shipment they are picking up tonight- as they have once a month with no complications for the last four months- is from Wayne Enterprises.

Of course, considering my vested interest in these kinds of transactions, who on Earth would suspect my involvement? Well, of the only five people on the planet who would, three are living in my house- two in my awesome secret basement-, one is Headmaster of the premier magic school in the country, and the last is standing in this very spot at this very time.

Wayne Manor, the place I am residing right now, was built about five months ago on the outskirts of London. Of course, the Death Eaters do not know about my basement addition, and they would not be particularly happy if they did. On the other hand, I think Dumbledore and Moody are considerably happier with their new accommodations. Hey, I can't please everyone, but at least I managed to please some people. Of course, it took a lot of explaining to finally get them on my side, but at least they're there.

Oh, wait, my deliverymen just left. It's just Death Eaters now, guarding a package I specifically ordered. I'm both acquiring something I need, and making a statement. Go Me. Well enough musing: It's Showtime.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Here's another installment. It's shorter than I would have liked, but I needed to get this installment out. I don't own Harry Potter or Batman, and I hope you all enjoy.

Chapter Three: Knight's Dawn

"I hate stupid pick-up jobs like this," the Death Eater in the corner grumbled. "Move this here, take that there, make it snappy, a bloody muggle could do your job! Phht, tossers, the lot of them."

"Perhaps I could be of assistance," A low voice muttered from right next to him.

The Death Eater turned and snorted. "How could you possibly-?" That was as far as he got before the figure, all dressed in black, with… well, those looked like spiky horns on top, and wearing a mask with only the lower part of his face exposed slammed a fist into his head and dropped him to the ground, unconscious.

"Hey Phil, hurry up with those-" The cloaked figure turned ad smashed a fist into his chest, before pounding him on the head, knocking him out as well. He quickly grabbed both men's legs, and pulled them over behind some crates, before stringing them together, back to back. Two down, five to go.

Let's get this show on the road. I attach a small metallic to the crate right next to them, and jump away. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. "Lydia, where are those lazy tossers?" Two. One… the room is plunged into darkness as my magical nullifier cancels out all the lights in the area.

"What the bloomin' 'ell is goin' on?" Shouts one of the Death Eaters. "Where are Phil and Dmitri?"

"You'll be joining them," I hiss as I jump on him, knocking him to the ground, before beating the bastard into unconsciousness.

"STEVEN! There's someone here! Stupefy!" Nice try, it won't work, finished with Steven I turn and punch the lady right in the mouth.

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" One of the remaining three shouts, as I tie up the two I'd just downed. "AND I CAN'T USE MY WAND!"

"Shut it Trevor!" Another bellows. "We'll kick his arse the muggle way!"

Finished with these two, I leap onto some crates. Three. Two. One. I kick the crate in front of me over to take care of Trevor for a second while I leap for the other one. I smash right on top of him, before giving him a few safety punches to make sure he's well and truly out. Safety first, I suppose. Springing upwards, I launch myself at the terrified figure who was standing right next to him, slamming him into a crate, before unclipping the bat cable I'd developed, and stringing him in the air like a side of beef.

I dodge to the side as Trevor recovers. My neutralizing field should be down by now- it only lasts for short bursts. Trevor apparently discovers that as he mutters, "Lumos," And a small crackle of light appears in front of him. That's when I leap from behind him, and before he can turn and fire a curse, his head hits the floor hard. I tie up Trevor and the other guy, before deciding it's time to interrogate stung-up-like-beef over there.

"Who are you?" He whispered, completely terrified.

"Your worst nightmare," I reply lowly. "Where were you delivering this shipment to?"  
"Wa-Wayne Enterp-prises," He stutters. "New technology firm."

"Where's the Warehouse?" Security question umber two.

"South Side o-of London," He answers. Okay, so he's scared out of his mind and willing to cooperate. I can work with that.

"Who's in charge there?"

"Pettigrew! Pe-Peter Pettigrew." Ah, the rat. I think it's time we get reacquainted Peter. It's simply been too long.

"Where else have you worked?" Yes, there is something trickling down his leg I don't want to think about by this point.

"Ministry Builidng. And Magerius Headquarters!"

"Give. Me. Schematics." His pants probably stained brown by this point, he readily complies. "Now sleep," I command as I knock him over the head and set to work tying him up. And there's the smell. Ugh. All in a night's work.

* * *

"I'm not quite sure I approve," Dumbledore says sternly after I tell him of my night's excursion.

"Frankly, I think we're long past the stage where honorable tactics are worth anything," I reply. Tersely, Moody nods his head and agrees with me as I put away my suit after cleaning it.

"Potter's right. Four of us fully committed to taking down the Dark Lord? We don't have other options, Albus," He mutters.

"How is the breakout plan coming?" I ask. Seeing as these two have a lot more experience in matters of magic and wards and such, I set them to work trying to figure out a way past Azkaban's new and improved heavy duty defenses. It's a process that is slow in coming. Very slow in coming. Put it this way; they've been working on this for months, and they're still not past the outer gate in their plans.

"How did your test run go?" Alfred asks, looking over my spent neutralizer.

"It gave me about five minutes. Of course, seeing as there's a proportional relationship between how powerful the targets are, and how long it lasts, anyone powerful probably gives me a minute or two with this version," I reply. "The suit was light, quick, and very durable though."

"And the wire?" He asks.

"Good enough to hold up a fairly heavy man," I declare. "Though it needs to be washed, because of my interrogation." Everyone makes a face at that. "But I think I have a lock on Pettigrew." Now that catches some interest.

"Where is the vermin now?" Moody growls. "When I get my hands on him-"

"Alastor!"

"Shut up, Albus! He gave me this scar!" Moody roars. "Little bastard was never good enough to spit-shine my shoes! We're gutting the sonovabitch!"

"I'm with Moody here," I interject. "Little rat bastard knows things. Besides, he owes us all a debt. I think I'm going to go and pay him a little visit."

Dumbledore sighs. "I think there is another way to handle this. One that would better solve all our problems. In a much more effective manner."

"Duly noted," I reply as I walk out of the room.

* * *

"Avada Kedavra!" I jump backwards, slipping out of sight behind some crates. "The Bat went that way!" The guy who just fired on me shouts. Of course, he doesn't realize that I'd doubled back to deal with his remaining back-up. Smash. Kick. Scream. And… another two down for the count. And the guy is standing there, trying to summon his friends over, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Perfect. Closer. Just come a little close. And… I lunge out, knocking the wand from his hand. It clatters to the floor while I reposition myself over him. He struggles and tries to punch me as I roll and kick his feet out from under him. He grasps for his wand nearby as I beat him to the punch, so to speak, and pick him up by the throat. "Where. Is. Pettigrew?"

"I ain't telling you shite!" He shouts as he spits in my face. Wrong answer.

"Fair enough," I growl, beginning a climb with him in my grasp. Holding him over the side of a pile of crates, I ask again. "Feel like talking now?"

"Okay. He's on Weylin Street. 477!" He shouts, and I pull him up and clap him in the head to knock him out. Another day, another group of thugs swiftly dropped. Just to make sure, I bergin searching bodies, looking for clues or indications of any kind. The only thing I find on one of the bodies is an address that I might have to check out later. Looks like I have another stop to make tonight.

* * *

"Good evening Mr. Pettigrew," I say as I knock the wand from his hand and slam him into the wall. He really is a pathetic excuse for a wizard if he still can't figure out how to hold onto a wand after all this time.

He backhand slaps me, and I deliver a nice firm uppercut. One more knock on the head, and he's out for the time being. Taking suitable precautions to restrain him, I begin searching his apartment.

Well Peter, you've certainly moved up in the world. Considering that you used to literally be a rat on the run, you've got rather nice lodgings now. Hopefully, rather nice lodgings complete with useful, helpful information. Then again, he is Peter Pettigrew, he is a moron, and I don't think the Dark Lord is quite stupid enough to trust anything in his incapable hands. But maybe I'm biased. Or lucky.

I quickly run through the apartment. Nothing the the drawers. No important papers. No Death Eater robes even. Hmm… I pull out a listening device I developed to check the walls. Perhaps he has a wall safe hidden somewhere around here? I begin scanning the apartment, hoping to lay my hands on some kind of intelligence. Huh, intelligence from a moron; rather like getting water from a stone.

Finally, I hit upon something. By this portrait of himself with the Marauders- what right does he even have to keep that- there is something. How do I… well, Peter, I guess you're going to have to help me out here. Just in case, I take a blade and spill a little of his blood. Alost just so I can prove myself wrong, I spill the blood on the safe door in back of the painting. Well, what do you know?

The safe cover melts away, and there are some documents, and even three robes. Rest must be out at the cleaner. Carefully, I take them and leaf through them. Hmm… interesting. Not really helpful right now, but interesting. I pull my wand from my sleeve and start making copies for myself. A few of the documents are encoded, but I'll have time to sort through all of that later. Stuffing my copies away safely, I replace the documents and reseal his safe. Time to talk, rat.

"Please! Don't kill me!" He shrieks as I reawaken him. Really. Really. I see you haven't grown a spine in our time apart. How lovely. Well, only one thing to do… I slap him.

"Tell me everything you know about the Dark Lord's operation," I growl. He shakes his head. Okay, maybe he's grown a very, very small spine. A very small and easily broken spine.

I start kicking the shit out of my parent's betrayers. It's oddly… therapeutic. He's fucked us all over, time and time again. And he's the one responsible for getting me in this mess. This is more about me than it is him at this point, in case you couldn't tell. "I'll talk! I'll talk!" He finally screams, his face rather bruised and bloody.

I pull out my Batarang and run the sharp edge along his face just so he gets a feel for his situation. He squeaks, absolutely terrified. Okay, okay, no. I'm not becoming a monster. I won't become my own worst enemy. I take a breath. But I do want that information.

* * *

"I disposed of the rat," I acknowledge hoarsely, arriving back. Moody looks up at me; I see shock on his face. "I… just. I knew I shouldn't. I knew why I shouldn't. But, I wasn't strong enough. I… gave in."

Dumbledore comes over, a worried look on his face. "And now you understand. You were gung-ho for revenge. You both were," He intones wisely. Moody looks down. "I wish I could have prevented it. But you see for yourself. This isn't how you win, as tempting as it seemed at the time. Never again, Harry. A rat like Peter Pettigrew did not deserve the power bringing you to his level gave him."

It's… indescribable. It was a heat of the moment thing. He kept waffling, giving bullshit answers when I had the truth in writing. I just… lost control. Snapped. Snapped him. I want to believe that he deserved, but again, I feel like I'm letting him win that way. And I'm not willing to let him win. Not Peter Pettigrew, and certainly not Tom Riddle.

"I got these from him," I say after a while where I was lost in my thoughts. "Some of it is encoded. Could you-?"

Dumbledore takes them from me. "Certainly Harry," He replies gently."You should go lay down. Get some rest." Not even acknowledging what he said in my head, I move to obey his suggestion.


End file.
